


The Heart of a City

by MatchaMochi



Category: DC Animated Universe, DCU, DCU (Animated), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Multi, also, gotham is kinda my OC now haha, gothamcentric, testing out a new plotbunny and Hcs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5918998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatchaMochi/pseuds/MatchaMochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘It’s curious’, Bruce thinks. </p>
<p>Whenever he goes outside, he feels a certain tension in the air. Everything seems to still, the chatters of random insects and birds quiets, the trees does not rustle or sway. Not a whisper, not a single breath, as if they were waiting for him to move. </p>
<p>or in which Bruce is actually the living, breathing, physical entity of Gotham itself,</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Manor

**Author's Note:**

> this started as a result from feeding and absorbing headcanons, fanpics, fanfics and other stuff from the superbat tag so yeh uh thnks tumblr? also! my sudden urge to write about the connection Bruce has with Gotham, (just seen the first season of the tv series btw, the char are really interesting but the plot? welllll) i wanted it to be short actually but then feelings n stuff went in so i ended up with four parts to the story, phew.  
> facts and stuff about gotham is provided by wiki google, thnks! and i am going to take some stuff from the comics and completely ignore some other stuff, (honestly i have no idea where the hell they're going for in the comics) so just treat this as one huge AU i guess or canon divergence? meh  
> P.S - enjoy smol bruce while you can :)

It begins with a soft, startled cry of a new born, hands reaching out in its struggle to chase away the sudden pang of an unknown power flowing down its chest, running through its small and fragile body.

It cries and cries, wailing out undefinable sorrow, dark anger and an insurmountable amount of _joy_ , mixing and churning in its mind, too young for it to comprehend them. If it were a full grown man it would have been screaming and clawing its head, begging for the onslaught of emotions to _stop._

Its mother comes, immediately cradling the trembling body in her arms. She shushes it, kissing its heated red cheeks and tears away. It keeps on crying, on and on until eventually, it falls into an exhausted sleep. Its mother, giving out a tired sigh but also relieved that the sudden crying fit has stopped, lays it back down at its cradle. She doesn’t give it a second thought and by morning, the baby is quiet and the mother is content.

Bruce Wayne will not remember, but this is how it all begins.

 _‘Yes,’_ Gotham says, she brings a reassuring breeze down at the manor. It does not rain and when the moon comes, there are no clouds to cover its moonshine.

‘ _He is the one.’_

And so it was settled.

* * *

 

She was a seed at first. Small and drifting, invisible and unassuming.

At first, she was _everything._ the wind that blows, the light that shines, she is every droplet of rain that falls down, every single grass blade that sways in the slivers of soft winds that is also her. She is the green grasshoppers that hop around, the butterflies that flutter, the flowers that bloom. She is also the lightning and thunder, the crows and bats, the caves and shadows.

She is a seed, and as the first human being steps on her domain ready for battle, she _grows._

They believed her to be sacred, inhabited by mysterious and supernatural beings. She stays quiet and calm, does not object. 

Watching, observing as the men kill and slaughter each other. She sighs when she feels blood seeping through her soil, closes her eyes as the screams of pain and terror echoes through the night sky.

She cannot _do_ anything so she decides that someone else should do it for her. She chooses a man, heart brave and loyal and murmurs, _‘Might as well,’_

Captain Jon Logerquist gasps, cries out to no one and trips on air. He shivers and trembles for a week, refusing to come out of his tent.

She waits.

In 1635, the Captain made leader by his men, names her as ‘ _Gotham,’_. She hums and sits back, ‘ _Not bad.’_ The Captain dies and she returns to her land, waits for another loyal soul.

Gotham grows and she too begins to understand the convoluted system, pleasure and treacheries of her world and the outside’s.

She is ancient as time itself, powerful as the land and it is all useless really since she does not has the heart too frighten her inhabitants- her _children_ , if she were to force them to do as she pleases.

So she plans and chooses.

She _waits_ and brings another part of her to her beloved chosen soul.

* * *

 ‘It’s curious’, Bruce thinks.

Whenever he goes outside, he feels a certain tension in the air. Everything seems to still, the chatters of random insects and birds quiets, the trees does not rustle or sway. Not a whisper, not a single breath, as if they were _waiting_ for him to move.

The forest holds its breath, so he takes another step forward and just like a video set to pause it plays again once Bruce wanders in, the trees tells secrets to him, the squirrels eyeing him mischievously. Sometimes he imagines he could hear snippets of conversation when he’s truly deep inside.

Words mingled with giggles, ‘- _he doesn’t know-‘_ or deep murmurs, ‘ _-too young-‘_. It’s the way he could feel every inch of soil and grass a hundred yards from the manor, the way, sometimes, he feels the cloud gathering over Gotham and he tells his mother to bring an umbrella before going to the city.

It is disconcerting, like the frown his father gives him when he says that he could _feel_ the ground under him, the thoughts of animals and infants miles from the manor, at the centre of the city. Thomas Wayne shakes his head and says, “It is nothing son, merely a feeling, do not dwell on it.”

And so Bruce keeps quiet, does not dwell on it and tries to brush it off. It does not work of course, so what he does dwell into is the forest behind his manor.

It’s still day time when he reaches the centre, Bruce doesn’t worry that he’ll lose his way; the heavy weight of the manor will lead him back. The trees are old here, tall and huge. Imposing, staring at him with disapproval. He continues further in, at a steady pace.

He doesn’t really know what he’s searching for, but it is _here._ He just needs to-

“ _Snap!”_

He falls down a deep black pit and the last thing he hears before a deafening silence and a blinding pain at the back of his head was the screeches of bats as they fluttered and clawed at his body. He cries out but there is no one, only shadows.

Bruce lands on cold hard ground and his eyes and mind sees darkness.

-

He wakes up to blackness; he cannot see his own hands even when he puts it in front of his face. He panics, feeling cold and wet, the ground under him damp and the air around him frigid. He is aching, a large bruise pounding insistently above the back of his neck. He thinks it might be bleeding. He ignores it.

Bruce breathes quicker and shallower but forces himself to focus, to calm down. The walls around him are rough ridged stones that has no openings whatsoever when he tries to feel around for an exit. They seemed to close around him, so he snatches his hands away from the cold stones.

He closes his eyes (doesn’t need to really,) and imagines the tulips in Alfred’s garden, the wide open fields and his mother smiling down at him from outside a picnic basket.

‘ _Why Bruce, You’re so small you could fit in anything!’_

And for once, he wishes it wasn’t quite so true.

-

‘It is a well,’ he concludes when he sees light pooling in from the moon above. ‘It is also already night time’. That was rather obvious too, (He wonders though, why there haven’t been any light in the day but there was one now? Something was at work here,)

Unfortunately, with the newfound presence of light, come others that Bruce would rather not have known if he could. They fluttered, making eerie shadows, staring down at him with beady eyes. And whereas the trees and its occupants had whispered and murmured, he had felt calm, and curious. The messages were just that too, peaceful and mysterious.

 The bats shrieked and chittered, Bruce imagines, ‘ _-the little boy is lost-‘_ and ‘ _-how dreadful-‘_ mocking and sneering down at him. He hates it, he doesn’t like it one bit and what he feels from them is-

‘ _Fear me,’_

It does not help that he can feel the earth, stones and structures of Gotham, not at all when he shivers and trembles from the dark and cold but knows every worm infested crevice at the stones of the well, and of the nest up, up, from above him, at a tree where he could never reach.

He fears them.

He waits for his father and when he arrives, Bruce is pale, bruised, and shaking thinking only of-

‘ _FearfearFEAR-‘_

* * *

 

The people were amusing sometimes. They had this notion, that she keeps a cursed immortal man under her, the others believes it to be a savage bat-demon from hell. Her occult heritage is legendary as it was ridiculous. Her dark and often cursed character did not, however, drive the people away. It invited more, curious scientist and peculiar cults. It was a dark influence that spreads out from her to the outside, and she revels in it, made her intimidating, made her _beautiful._

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a gentle shift in the air, unlike the gunshot Joe Chill fires. Those felt like an earthquake. One, two; the waves of destruction leaving death and wreckage at its wake, come again and again. Bruce does not do anything.

He is rooted to the spot, unmoving, except for the furious trembling that shakes his bones, the cold tears leaking out that burns his cheeks. The blood leaves large puddles behind, it soaks through the cracks of the alleyway, sinking in the ground. The last breath his mother leaves behind forms little warm clouds in the cold air.  The sound his father gives out is a silent whimpering plea that gets lost in the thickening silence that follows. The moon makes the beads of pearls rolling down the sewers glint, it hangs over them. There are no clouds.

The air shifts, the cloud gathers, the moon disappears.

It rains and rains for days, months.

Bruce does not leave the manor, the things he fears are outside.

(The things he fears takes his love ones away,)

* * *

 

 She is resilient. This is how she survives the onslaught of wars, diseases and disasters that comes her way. One that comes in mind however, is of an immortal man that left her weak with a virus that spreads over her people, leaving thousands to die. Just as she was recovering, an earthquake strikes her, a blow that resulted in the rest of the world cutting her off from them.

Her people are also resilient, they are resourceful and often cynical in nature but she does not blame them. The effort they took to rebuild and repair _Gotham_ is commendable. She is fond of them. With this, countless varied architecture, from the very modern to the very old scatters over the city. She nods in approval. The world can hit her how many times they please, her people and chosen guardian will persevere, because this is her people, her city, her soul.

They will not break it down, Gotham will stand tall forever. 

* * *

 

He notices it a year after he becomes an orphan though is not particularly surprised by it at all. It had only made itself known when it had become rather too obvious to ignore.

 Alfred says when he sleeps, the weather was always calm. He says it with a tired quirk of his lips and Bruce offers a reluctant smile in return. This time around, Alfred is always tired.

But, what he says was ultimately true, even intended as a joke. Every time he wakes up he feels the cloud shifting for another rainy day. He does not understand. If what he hypothesised was right, that the weather, the earth and the physical entity of Gotham was projected out due to his state of being, why was it always raining?

He is not sad, or depressed. He has gone by his parent’s death, it has happened and nothing could change that. It is a wound that has gone numb and only emerges as anger at certain times of the day.

The constant investigations by James Gordon fuelled his anger for vengeance but he is calm and steady because he _knows_ he cannot do anything but observe. He cannot change anything because, as ironic as it is to admit, he has no _power._

The city changes, day by day. Incidents, murders, crimes, it is as unusual as hearing the early weather forecast for the day. He remembers, one time, he had felt particularly angry so he brings in hails and storms that rages through the city to its very core.

The next morning, three deaths are reported from a landslide due to the heavy rain. Bruce throws up his breakfast down the sink. After that, he forces himself to relax.

He also remembers a chaotic evening with one Selina Kyle. The living room was a mess, but outside, the sun peeks through the dark clouds for the first time in months. 

 

* * *

 

 

She has once made Col. Nathan Cobblepot her defender during the American Civil War. His battles were legendary, they called it the ‘ _Battle of Gotham Heights’_ praised it and made him someone the people trusts. She expected him to protect them, to be responsible, to uphold their trust.

She waits again, and sighs when his descendants were not what she had in mind when she thinks of ‘trust’.

 

* * *

 

 

He starts trying to control them, to bend it to his will. The deaths of the family he had killed feels like being drenched in cold water, gasping for breath only to realise he’d been in a drugged induced haze disguised as misery. He had been rash, careless, _stupid._

To think he could bring Gotham into this, to be responsible for the lives of his city, (for yes, it is indeed his, he could tell from the moment he realises the reason the rain keeps falling was because he’s not _changing_. His parents had been responsible, now he must take up the mantle.), to have thousands of lives in his hands but doing nothing to protect them? He will not allow it.

So he trains himself.

He sits outside the balcony and thinks about his mother, the bright smiles and the sunshine on his back. Tries to remember his father’s voice, a steady cadence and the soft weight on his shoulder,

It keeps on raining.

 

* * *

 

 

Ever since Cobblepot, she stops choosing the leaders her people think are worthy, for they do not know what happens behind their pasted smiles and deceiving words. They don’t know what she can feel and see each time they hurt an innocent soul, leave ashes in her forest and smirks as they swim over their born wealth and glory.

She feels corruption, like poisonous water that seeps through her city, killing her people and changing the others.

She regards them first, judges, and reluctantly gives them her power.

 

* * *

 

 

He becomes a young man knowing that he did not just influence the rain and sunshine.

It starts to show when he feels a sudden change in pattern to everyone’s behaviour. It’s a strange thing, (but what he regards as ‘strange’ must be a poor concept to everyone else’s understanding. He finds Alfred’s pancake cooking skills surprising, when the butler admits to him that he could very well beat a man twice his size to a pulp, Bruce nods in affirmation and takes it in stride. It does not surprise him, he might have a niggling suspicion from the start anyways,) he keeps a careful passive face when he speaks to people.

He wears an intricately made façade that ensures that if they were ever to guess what Bruce Wayne was really thinking they’ll think twice because every smile is perfectly carved, every sigh and grimace a measured movement that he has learn to manipulate and control from being to too many gatherings.

So it throws him off, when Harvey Bullock, a not very perceptive man if he was being honest, stares straight at his eyes, through his mask and asks,

“You okay there kid?”

Bruce gives him a reluctant smile and a reassurance. The man shrugs it off but Bruce’s head is reeling with questions on just _how_ did the man knew-

He files it away for another time; after all, it could be just a coincidence.

It happens again though, when he feels angry he sees Alfred tensing from the corner of his eyes even though he hadn’t done anything to show his displeasure. Another time, Detective Gordon gives a startled laugh and looks at himself oddly, as if he didn’t know why he was laughing in the first place, at the time Bruce was contemplating about the ridiculousness of his past crushes when he notices the detective coming towards him.

It occurs again and again, at which point when he passes by a jewellery shop and spies a pearl necklace on display, a woman beside him bursts into tears whereas before he could’ve sworn she was humming happily, he realises that not only does he need to build a shield by fronts, he has to suppress his emotions and block off his mind from the world. For if he does not do that what was the use of pretending anymore?

The distance between him and the ones he interacts with widens, though he sticks around with the crowd. What others thinks and feels could not be more farther from the truth.

He admits, it becomes tiring, as if wearing heavy black armour, every move weighting him down. It is a relief at the manor, he drops his mental shields and lets Alfred sense his thoughts and emotions. Someone has to take care of his wellbeing anyways.

 

* * *

 

 

She wonders, sometimes, if this was somehow unfair. She in all her control and power could never fathom to understand how a mere human brain functions, how they feel, what they do, why they do it. She doesn’t need to have doubts, she is the land and the land goes where it wants to and it isn’t as if she could die and disappear,

Could she?

She does not doubt.

But she feels a foreboding, creeping over her. It’s a pressure that keeps on pressing, hot iron on her back. It starts with the gunfights, the starvation, the lost souls, a lost cry. She starts to think otherwise, but then she remembers why she trusts her people and after, she chooses another one to be the reason she will not disappear.

 

* * *

 

 

Unexpectedly, or, expectedly, the winds of passion does, literally sway whenever he stares at someone too long. (He says ‘someone’ because Bruce finds he likes the curly brown tufts of Selina’s hair, her tilting smirk, the graceful motions of her hands. But, it is undeniably true that he also finds himself glancing at James Gordon strong jawline and blue eyes often and he thinks, ‘ _Shit,’_ )

It’s not obvious, (then again, no one has noticed that the weather is as dull and dreary as his afternoon classes,). It’s a thrill, the way his heart involuntarily speeds up, his eyes shifting though he tries to look straight, the rains lightens slightly, breeze sharp, flowing in through windows and cracked bricks.

Sometimes he feels the sun beating down like the pressure of seeing a man’s naked torso, or the sharp smell of rain bringing in the fragrance of flowers just like the soft thighs of a lady that gives him a mischievous grin.

Alfred sighs at him, exasperated, but it’s hardly his fault. Sometimes, he is no better. The feelings of _want_ exudes from him like an intoxicating aroma, he can’t help it if people were sniffing. He hardly ever bothers to hide from Alfred nowadays. The butler scrunches his nose and walks away, fretting about today’s hazardous young generation.

 

* * *

 

 

She had wanted James Gordon. She _should_ have chosen James Gordon.

Later, she doesn’t need to it seems, the man gives her a clear head, a slight reprieve, and she knows it’s not permanent but she feels relieved nonetheless.

She feels Bruce and he feels her and when the weather shifts again she nods quietly, remembers why the boy was the youngest she had ever chosen by far.

 

* * *

 

The unadulterated  pleasure of an orgasmic release makes Bruce thinks vaguely of embarrassing mountains and volcanoes popping out from nowhere in Gotham, when he slides back to sleep he feels a quiet chuckle and an amused sigh,

‘ _You want evidence of your recent copulation, boy?’_

Morning wood and a giggling bed partner was nothing compared to the recent findings of a geyser at the far edge of Gotham. He laughs quietly at Alfred’s puzzled look and stares at the news as if looking fondly at an old friend’s hilarious antics.

It does not happen again, though sometimes an occasional untimely blooming of flowers occurs, (also in the middle of winter,).

Years later, they turned the place into a hot spring; he doubts he’ll ever see it though.

 -

 _‘Stay.’_ She tries to tell him, a message conveyed through the feelings of distant homesickness and a gut-wrenching loss of something dear.

 _‘Please,’_ she says again, forcing him to glance back at tall spires and swirling dark clouds under him as he flew pasts the city yet again.

 _‘Come back.’_ she commands him, a nail and a hammer in his head banging, the sounds resounding with a hollow echo. He brushes it off, hops through one country and the next. Studies in various universities, never for long, dropping out when he knows he doesn’t need to stay anymore.

He trains under the harsh blistering sun and deserts, in humid damp rainforests and the high mountains, air thin making him gasp with exhaustion. The people he meets along the way remembers him as a pale boy, eyes dark with vengeance, an overachiever that will earn nothing but wasted time. He leaves them in satisfaction, they watch his back, now broad and thick with muscle, as he grows and mows down everything in his way by sheer will.

Before he meets Ra’s al-ghul he sits in the manor, heavy rain pattering at the high windows. He feels her sigh of relief and thinks, ‘ _I won’t leave.’_ Closes his eyes slowly, shadows of rain from the outside sticking on the glasses of the windows painting his face. ‘ _I swore an oath.’_ His pale white skin makes an appealing contrast with the shadows, like a stage mask, like he was crying. He says it again, now, to himself, ‘ _I won’t leave.’_

The next day he leaves Alfred a note and his city a thunderstorm that rages on for days.

 He doesn’t return for the next two years.

-THE MANOR-

-END-


	2. The City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slums are Gotham’s guilty look and leaving waste, her popular secret and shameful fault. The place where kids like Jason Todd runs free and wild, stepping on her toes, tickling the soles of her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meep. i wished there were more synonyms for clouds tbh,

The system, he finds, beneath the dark alleys and worn down buildings of the city, through the high rise walls of the parliament and the busy racket of the police department, is, even with the new commissioner, insufficient.

These days, the shifting of weathers is just as surprising as the next report of a bizarre incident blaring on the morning news and crossed over the _Gotham gazette._ Unusual, but not unexpected, and for all the faults of the city, Bruce feels relief that the people would not think twice about the unending rain and dark clouds. Gotham is unusual, and it is to be expected.

But the crimes and cries of the city is a problem he has been trying to solve since the death of his parents, an ongoing sentence that has yet to be fulfilled, and he could _feel it._

She waits, watching his next step closely, unblinking.

He turns twenty intending to join the FBI but its legal system is constricting as it is unsatisfactory. ‘ _No,’_ she shakes her head, ‘ _Not enough.’_ So he turns twenty-one looking back, and plans his next step, aware of the skies watching him from overhead.

 -

The court session, he recalls, was one of many that was yet to come. Bruce Wayne is unfazed as he stares at the flashing of cameras and the grave faces of the many. He has front seat of course, the clicking and general questions from the reporters a distant white noise far off at the back as it to be insignificant. He remembers though, they question him, the police, the judge, as to what will happen to his parents’ murderer.

He looks straight into Joe Chill’s wide frightened eyes and builds blocks after blocks of walls and shields, making sure its solid, it’s invulnerable, air tight and secure. She offers him no reprieve from the eventual sentence that falls down on the man.

‘ _You left for so long…’_

But he came back, he _came back_ and he gets a hearing, laws streaming down his ears and the mocking headline from the local newspaper reminding the citizens of Gotham that yes, Bruce Wayne has indeed come back but, (they do not say it explicitly but it is implied,) who would have been a better successor to his family’s business than him? The answer is simple: _everyone else._

It is not tight enough.

 Nobody comments on the distant rumbling of an oncoming storm heard outside, the winds beginning to pick up, making the trees sway in its fierceness. His anger, hate, _vengeance_ , leaks out, but he keeps his face cool, posture relaxed.

The man is set free, what makes Bruce’s plastered smile turn just a tinged sincere was the quiet whimper as the man stumbles, breath hitching as an onslaught of emotions hit him. The reporters does not see the hard glint in his eyes, does not catch his nails digging in his palms, they do not know him thinking, ‘ _Soon…’_ Bruce gathers himself together again, and strides out of the courtroom, the crowds of people and security alike following him.

 -

-

-

He’d thought that it’ll come to him like a gunshot. He’ll have visions, of the wretched sounds of fluttering wings and chitter, flashing in his mind, a hit in the head and a push to the darkness.

Instead, he dreams.

He sits between mother and father, he supposes he feels happy, he is laughing. They were in a theatre; dark lowlights at the back, making the light at the front shine golden illuminating their smiling faces. There are dark figures at the stage, they dance, sing, and their cloaks and capes billows from under them as they raise their hands to the sky. Bruce feels like falling, he clutches on the armrest, holding on, his stomach feeling like it has left long before. In his right ear he hears the thick flutters of a bat. The moon flashes in his mind, dark and full. ‘ _Fear_.’ And he hates it, just as he hates himself.

“I want to leave.”

They pause, and asked him if he was sure, their faces concerned and worried. When he nods they don’t hesitate as they brush on their jackets and put their hands over his.

“It’s fine Bruce, let’s go home.”

He stands up, his hands gripping his mother’s tightly, his legs shaky as it leaves the red cushiony chair. He turns his head and he sees _fire._ Gotham, in flames, cries and screams echoing in the darkness and cold bodies sprawled out before him. They groan in pain, the sting of blood and smoke hits him, the ash making his eyes water.

‘ _No.’_

And he wakes up with a gasp, glass shards on his feet, black beady eyes staring straight at him. It chitters, and flutters away. Alfred walks in, quiet as usual, sweeps up the mess and asks him if he was going to stay up late again. He nods, and the butler leaves hot black coffee for him in the morning.

The clouds are grey, shiny and dull; it’s snowing by the time he drives to the city.

He makes his decision, she watches him silently, and when Bruce contacts Lucius Fox he feels approval with the early setting of the sun as it welcomes the moon. It does not matter; he does not need it anyways. She observes, he does what he justifies is right.

 -

-

-

It takes a moment.

She is surprised, is surprised that she feels surprised and she reminds herself that _she_ chose _him._ That was how he came to be (doubtful) and that was how she knows he will be the one to finally change everything (certainly).

So when Batman is born she feels revived, alive as she has never been before, a new legend, a new _legacy._

She feels hope, like the swaying shadows and the silent flutter of a dark cape, and she keeps on watching.

 -

-

-

They say you’d know when Batman is hunting you. It’s the trail of goose bumps crawling down your back, a shiver that isn’t the cause of a misty cold night. You feel eyes behind you though there is only darkness, you feel a sinking feeling down your stomach and you’ll know that tonight you won’t be getting home to your comfy old sofa and warm walls. There is a simmering rage, a hate stabbing you and your breath stutter when a shadow jumps out from the dark.

A lowly thief whimpers eyes wide, trembling and shaking. The devils glare bores down into his soul, its claws tight at the collar of his shirt piercing skin, the _fury_ crashes into his head like waves; he chokes out, “Who are you?”

And it replies, “I’m _Batman_.”

-

-

-

-

-

The birds came too early that morning. Winters grasps tightly on Gotham every year, this time, its hands are loose, as if uncertain whether it should let go or not. The frost outside is accompanied by the warmth of sunshine making the snows and sludge at the manor shine gold. Leaves peeks through the garden, a few flowers already peeling off their petals impatient for the spring.

Bruce is not happy.

So this is unnatural, yes, more unnatural than usual. It is a near thing, his coffee is black, bitter and hot, just as he likes it and he almost chokes on it when he hears birds chirping outside. The high windows displays the trees standing tall at the clearing, its branches reaching down to touch the glass, at its trunk he spots a flash of red disappearing in one of its many holes. 

He sips his coffee gingerly, the Gotham gazette splayed open on his table. Alfred walks in, (and he takes a second to think of a word when the butler does that, not quite walking, more of a floating, no sound, no indication of a sudden entrance. He is a part of the mansion and not for the first time he is glad that the man is by his side,) he clears his throat, though he does not have to, and says,

“The child is still asleep upstairs Master Bruce.”

He ruthlessly breaks the silent bubble Bruce has built around him ever since he came back from the circus and he sighs to himself and tells himself that this shouldn’t be as surprising as it is; Alfred plows through his shit and calls on it whenever he gets too drastic. He never admits but there it is nonetheless.

“I suppose he needs breakfast after this,”

Alfred nods, “That is correct.”

There’s a quiet moment in which he hopes the leaves outside wouldn’t look quite so green, it’s in the middle of December for gods sakes, global warming is a long term project he’s confident to tackle at one time or another.

Then,

“He has no relatives?”

And a deep sigh,

 “No.”

Alfred nods again, acknowledging that fact, filing it away. He refills the cup with steaming bitter coffee and cocks his ear to the side. The high windows rattle.

 “The birds are early this year.”

Bruce nods in agreement, smoothing down the newspaper to get a better look, “Yes they are.”

A quiet chuckle, not daring to break the peaceful mood of the morning, followed by a soft smile, “It’s almost like a sign,” Alfred clears the finished breakfast, its silver cutleries clinking together. He catches the look of uncertainty in Bruce’s face and pauses, “Master Bruce?”

Bruce stares at him, mouth twisted in a wry smile, “Perhaps you’re right at that.”

-

The robin does not care for the occupants of the manor.

A small boy, tired and weary from the events that have occurred with the loss of his parents feels a small wind sliding in one of the windows he did not close properly last night since he had cried himself to sleep. It feels cold and fresh, like a late winters kiss. It is a bit reassuring. Gotham smiles and waits for the new day.

The robin chirps and flutters away, searching for little twigs to build its nest.

-

-

-

-

“Hey Bruce,”

“What.”

“It’s been pretty sunny lately hasn’t it?”

“Apparently.”

“Any idea why?”

“Not at all.”

“……….”

“.”

“…..sooo when can I get to drive the Batmobi-“

“You can’t drive the Batmobile the Batmobile drives you.”

“Oh _come on-”_

-

This is another conversation, though hidden behind private comms and shy eyes, deep in the bat cave. It goes like this:

“So about Babs-“

“No.”

And ends with distant grumblings and a slammed door, behind the consoles though, underneath the blinking lights and huge monitors, a cup with the ‘Worlds 1# Grandpa’ plastered on its side sits safely where it will, hopefully, (most certainly if Bruce has a say in it,) stay there for eternity.

The clouds are heavy, but the ground stays dry.

Barbara Gordon grins and hides behind him in the darkness, he doesn’t stop her.

-

-

-

He looks outside and he sees the barren nest tucked between the branches of the tree beside his tall windows. Sighs and leaves the room for a well-needed afternoon nap. At night, the armour weights him down as he roams around Gotham alone. Above, the clouds are heavy and expectant; it has been a long while since there has been rain.

-

 

-

 

-

 

-

The night is cold, dark, and windy. Gotham gives her best when the children hiding in the dark runs out at night, feeble as it might be. The deep gurgling of a clogged drain, the skittering of rats and mice, it’s the sound of the slums down at the lady’s feet, where she hides the dirty grime and dirt at her heels, the dark green moss of germs and diseases brushing at the edges of her dress.

The slums are Gotham’s guilty look and leaving waste, her popular secret and shameful fault. The place where kids like Jason Todd runs free and wild, stepping on her toes, tickling the soles of her feet.

 The moon is full yet again and she stares in amusement as he tries, to no avail, to wrench the tires of the Batmobile. She sees potential, snatches it, not knowing what would come next.

-

-

A month later and Bruce is thinking of making an insurance for Jason’s 

mouth considering all the casual profanities that flows out of it. It’s disconcerting to say the least, almost like the word ‘fuck’ is just a starter to anything he has to say. Bruce doesn’t blame him, though Alfred’s constant constipated face makes him wonder that too.

-

-

-

“How the _fuck_ does this fucking _work?”_

“Try being more gentle Mast-“

“ _FUCK IT-“_

-

There is the language thing and _then_ there’s the drinking thing,

“Heyyy Bossman, what’s a bat without its cave eh? Eh!?”

“Jason,”

“A bird! Get it? Huh? You know- like- like you and that- that… _powerman?,_ whateverthefuckthatguysnamewas-“

“Alfred, hide the wine cabinet in a better place next time-“

“ALFRED I AM A FUCKING FLYING BAT _WOOHOO_ -“

Jason is grounded from night patrol for two weeks. It doesn’t matter though since the missing tires from the Batmobile hoarded under his bed is proof enough on how he hates staying in the manor.

Bruce doesn’t smile.

In winter, the morning glories taunt him with their blooming petals.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

She remembers sorrow. She remembers, a deep dark pang, shaking the city, like an atomic bomb, a shockwave.

She remembers a man.

He works in one of the rarest pleasant atmospheric pre-school Gotham has to offer, teaches children all day long. Bright, wonderful, smiling children and it sets his heart at ease every time one of them beams at him and praises him so. Sometimes they give him colourful cards, crayons scratched on it with effort and will. And he laughs, gives out a gentle smile and ruffles their hair.

He teaches them all day but he’s happy, the manager is a woman that is mature for her age and doesn’t mind calling him ‘Son,’ or ‘Dear,’ even when she knows he has a wife and two kids. She reminds him of his mother when she was alive, kind but firm at the same time.

He loves his job, doesn’t mind the long walk home to the railway, the decent sized apartment him and his wife managed to buy when arriving at the city. And he loves it, he loves the way his wife greets him home, kissing his cheek softly, her skin smelling of warm spices and those tomatoes she loves so much, loves the way his two daughters shrieks and attacks him into a hug at the doorway, loving their ‘Daddy!’ and their square little teeth.

When he sits down to dinner after freshening up he thinks, ‘This is it.’ This is all he ever wanted, the good life, the happiest he’s ever been. He feels like laughing, like smiling all day long, like skipping around with joy. His wife passes him the plates and he gratefully takes it from her.

Then, she gives him a concerned look,

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Hmmm?”

She frowns, lifting up a hand to his face, hesitating for a second before brushing his cheeks with gentle fingers. It comes out wet.

“You’re crying,”

And he realises this, he realises that his cheeks are wet, his heart pounding, eyes red. Hands trembling, back shaking in an unknown tremor,

“I-I don’t _know-“_

-

Remembers a mother at the far edges of the city, staring at her wilted flowers, decayed, crippled, dried and dirty, a year’s hard-work all gone to waste. But she knows the reason her distraught sobs choking out of her is not because of her precious chrysanthemums. Inside, her baby cries and cries and cries,

-

Remembers the barking of dogs in pens, as they pounded the metal confines of their prison, despair tinged with rage. The wails of cats in the dark alleys of the city, before, moving and slinking in the dark, now, freezing, staring at the sky with wide, dilated eyes, whining out to god knows what.

Selina Kyle trips on air, lands nimbly with her hands and legs and stares out at nowhere. She narrows her eyes at the gathering dark clouds,

“Bruce?”

-

Remembers the sudden drop in temperature, the rushing of blood, water, mud, sludge, sinking down drains, going through veins, accumulating, churning. The noise, ringing, deepening, the screech of a siren like waves throughout the city and it is: Silence.

 The sounds of traffic are nothing, a conversation goes quiet for no reason at all, a glass of beer raised high in the air slips down a man’s fingers and falls down with a crash. No one asks him why his face has gone pale, they feel it too. Gotham is numb, the numbness building in the centre, mutes everything to a world of black and grey.

The cloud gathers.

-

And a twisted, dark laugh, stabs through the quiet night, maniacal, crazed, in a way where she fears would destroy the fragile balance of everything she’d ever built.

Too late, she hears, whispered through the streaks of red slashed at the edges of his mouth, deranged and dangerous, the Joker smirks at the face of Gotham and says,

_‘Too late,’_

It rains.

_-_

It is ruthless, bullets down his back, heavy in its intensity. He stands there unrelenting, rigid and unmoving. He does not bother with the armour, and the missing cowl is not given even a second glance.

There is no one else to see, there _will be_ no one else that will see him like this, a broken shell of a man.  He makes sure of that with the darkening night and the torrents of rain.

The headstone stares at him accusingly, Jason’s name glaring through the flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder.

He does not move.

-

_

_

_

_

_

The wind is a tired sigh sliding in the cracks of his windows, dry, brown leaves pushing to get through the tiny opening. When Alfred shuts it close with a quiet click he hears another sigh, this time long and drawn out, he asks, “Is there something wrong Master Bruce?”

The other doesn’t look up from the Gotham gazette but his butler can hear the frown leaking through the edges of his voice when he replies, “Not particularly.”

It is autumn when Superman decides to visit Gotham for the first time, Bruce is surprised the man had even waited this long.

He finally puts down the paper, nodding at Alfred when he takes it away from the table. Bruce turns his head to the windows, leans back. He slowly closes his eyes and says softly, as if whispering to a ghost or to anyone who would bother to hear,

“It’s going to rain tonight,”

 

 

-THE CITY-

-END-


	3. The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is a common crook dressed as a ‘dark hero’ who thinks he has the power to help people. Clark has no time to waste on people like him, he doesn’t play around, he says it outright and the black silhouette is silent, still and observant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trailer superman needs to chill tbh,  
> and yeah the pansy flower symbolizes the love or admiration of one person for another.

Imagine a picture. No, imagine a _gallery._

Those art galleries thrown in the corners and crevices of famous and bustling cities, hidden inside inconspicuous buildings, dark and mysterious, you round in a corner and you found a ticket lying on the ground, dirty but still eligible. A person smiles at you behind a counter, they have long hair, dark as night and a sharp jaw, you can’t tell if they are man or woman and by the time they take your ticket and pushes you through the dark corridor you forget why it even mattered.

Quiet whispers accompany you as you stride in the hallways and paths of the gallery. People in black and grey as dull and numb as the walls and the pictures splayed out on them, they pay you no heed. Glasses clinked together and you found you too have champagne held out at your right hand, dark and crimson.

And you walk. You observe the paintings and murals of the various pieces of art lining up the grey walls, the paintings itself a wide spectrum of deep, dark black to light grey. Some are disheartening, reminds you of sadness and rage, they are pitch black and you have to squint through the oozing black paint to see the canvas underneath.

Some are lighter, not unlike drizzles of rain in a sunny morning, which makes you feel light-hearted, makes you feel like there could have been so much more. Those pictures though, are still as grey as the rest. The hallways seem never-ending, you walk and you walk and soon, you start to recognise a pattern.

The changes are not random, you realise that, they are shifting like an unending cycle. Light to dark, dark to light and it repeats. Happy, sad, angry, and nothing. They occur again and again, you see no dead end-

Until, a painting catches your eye, not like the others. It’s a field of flowers; black pansies dotted all over, a carpet over the grey hills. But this is hardly unusual. The others were similar, scenes of cities, forests, mountains, deserts and villages, all in black and grey.

The painting beckons at you, tells you in a whisper, ‘ _Look closer,’_ and you see it. It’s sudden, and you wonder how you hadn’t seen it in the first place. At the edge of the wide, field of flowers a figure stands, rigid and firm. You frown in puzzlement, and he goes ‘ _Ah!’_ Bruce resists snapping his fingers with the dawning realisation, he gives Gotham a dry smile and tells her that she shouldn’t have worried; he knows what he’s doing. The figure seems to move when he backs away to look at it more clearly, seems to stare at him in apprehension when Bruce gives it a small wave.

Its red and blue.

Bruce wakes up, back aching as he pushes himself up with a low groan. It’s a premonition, he thinks, after all; it’s not every day he dreams about Superman.

-

He stands out. She doesn’t even need to show her city just how _much_ he stands out. Superman is a celebrity stranded in the middle of a dark forest. Not lost but not entirely _there._ She greets him warily, covers the moon and thickens the clouds but he flies over her city, domineering and soundlessly, as if it’s _his._

She grumbles along with the echoing thunder, Superman looks up and doesn’t give the lightning another glance.

-

The handshake is dry and firm, Clark Kent smiles at him, white teeth flashing with practiced ease, “ _Bruce Wayne,”_ and he smiles in return, equally flashy and fake, with a hint of seduction rubbed at the edges. He feels a sudden drought of heat, the rain outside patters on, and when he glances behind the reporter he sees a glint of red in the deep corners of his eyes.

She says, with a thundering note, with the itch that snakes up to his neck, _“Him,”_

Bruce blinks, and before Superman could hear his heart picking up speed, he shuts off his mind and forces his body to relax. Offers another glass of wine to the young man, sees to it that he is sent to his hotel safely.

In the manor, he mutters to himself, Alfred dusting the bookshelves by his side,

“Who would’ve thought?”

-

-

-

-

During the day, he visits the graves every once in a while, leaves flowers for Jason’s and a heavy silence for his parents.

At night, he leaves the city feeling safer with the cries of robbers and crooks, also, a fair warning for Superman. A warning not quite leaning to a threat, but not that far either. Clark Kent flies off with a stormy expression.

Bruce doesn’t _quite_ snicker, but it’s a close thing.

-

Batman is a common crook dressed as a ‘dark hero’ who thinks he has the power to _help_ people. Clark has no time to waste on people like him, he doesn’t play around, he says it outright and the black silhouette is silent, still and observant.

“Stop.”

The rain pours heavily around them.

“Try using that infrared vision of yours,”

The silence is thick, rain hitting the cemented floor of the high-rise building they’re on deafening. He sees Superman jaw tighten as he detects the field he’d put around his body.

“It’s tuned to your extremely dense body structure. You break it, a bomb goes off in the city,”

Lightning flashes, Bruce does not react. The light exposes the daggered stare of Superman, wide eyes, gritted teeth. He imagines heat emanating from those deep set eyes, a flash of red and he’ll end up dead. Just like that.

“Do you really want that?”

People like him belongs in _prison._

-

_‘Close enough.’_

Bruce pulls Superman from his rage, a boiling, fiery thing, his self-preservation is extremely low at times, but she soothes the violent rain and brings down a breeze so Batman in turn, changes the subject and tell Superman about a jewel thief, Magpie, that he’d been tracking down these past few nights.

Clark cocks his head to the side before he’d even explained Magpie’s whereabouts and Bruce knows that he doesn’t need to track her anymore.

A few seconds is all it takes for Superman to apprehend a problem Bruce has been trying to solve for _nights._ He is wary, he does not know Superman’s limit, does not know if Superman realises how much _power_ he has in his hands, how he could destroy everything in a blink of an eye if he so wished.

She is afraid. She does not want him in the city, ‘ _Close enough,’_ she tells him again. Bruce sees to it that the hero of Metropolis _stays_ in Metropolis.

Clark does not want to but he scowls, things are not how they should be, here in Gotham.

-

He does not tell Clark that the only bomb that would have been set off in the city was the one attached to his body. He considered telling him, once, in the future. But sighed and figured that Superman wouldn’t have been surprised at all.

He _must_ have realised by now after all, right?

-

-

-

“ _You’re just an outlaw.”_

She lashes out, fury coming out in waves as the ripped cowl lands on the floor with a muffled thump. Bruce Wayne glares at Superman, bangs falling over his eyes, jaw tight with an indignant anger.

The wind howls outside.

” _Nothing more than a clown playing ‘hero’,”_

And it is anger, anger so full and searing that it makes the trees outside, in Gotham, bend in submission. It is anger because how _dare he?_ How _dare_ he patronise her choice? Her guardian? _Her_ heart?

He escapes in the end. The hurricane does not stop for another three weeks.

-

-

-

They would have destroyed everything together, Gotham thinks. The way they were smashing and tearing everything apart, if it were not for Diana Prince her city would have been in _shambles._ But it didn’t and they came out of it.

Slightly embarrassed, (Superman), and a little regretful (Bruce).

Wonder woman straightens them down, lips thin with a disappointed frown.

Then, they made an Agreement, and after that they left the city, like they were never there.

She waves them off, a gentle breeze and a surprising sunshine hour from Bruce. But it would have been too late, he have had a glimpse of it. The world. Curiosity is a fickle cat that sleeps in corners and appears when you least expect it, this one, does not die however hard she tries to remind him that his duties are _here_ , in this city.

But who was she to tell him what to do?

-

I’ll tell you, she was his _every being,_ his _life,_ and it is to be reminded again that yes, Bruce Wayne does not have any sense of self-preservation at all.

-

-

-

-

-

In the city, his past comes back to him one by one, like a long awaited letter, or an arrow, blazing with fire, stabbing him all over.

The Red hood glares down at him, contempt and anger scarring his masked face. Bruce does not move, his face does not show anything new either. Right when Jason vanishes off to the dark, he feels something, a gentle breeze, warmth at his back.

It feels like relief.

-

“Jason, don’t forget-“

“Umbrellas in the back Bruce,”

And that’s that.

The rain that comes after is light, and the clouds stay crowded together.

-

The Oracle is another stab in the dark, and somehow, he could never look James Gordon in the eye again, not after what have happened. She smiles tiredly at him; her soft words and gentle tones imply that it is fine. It is alright because it was never his fault. And he, of course, never lets it go.

-

Timothy Drake appears before him, one thing leads to another and suddenly he has another Robin, a brilliant detective. He regrets, regrets ever having the thought that somehow he could be the substitute for the boys own father,

The flowers that blooms in winter are now tulips, they make Tim smile despite his troubles and he thinks of bringing some to Barbara. It’s just a thought.

-

Another one, and despite everything, it reminded him of Jason. Cassandra Cain though, is different in every way. She is quiet, a silent observer and a fierce fighter. He hears about her father, and swallows down his anger, sparking in the edges.

She is a gem, however low she might think of herself, she is precious and Gotham and he treats her as such.

-

The last one is unexpected. This, in itself is surprising.

Thoughts of Talia had always brought him to a standstill. He had never felt love quite as sudden and frantic as when he met her. He remembers, a burning want, bonfire lighting up so bright and high that in the morning it is only left with the smouldering coals of passion, lying on the ground, soon to be only cool rocks of no significance.

And then there’s Damian.

The boy stares up at him, stubborn and defiant, calls him ‘ _Father’_. And it becomes another thread that ties him to the city.

-

“Father,”

“….”

“I. I am bored.”

“….Hello bored,”

“Uh-“

“I’m _Batman-“_

-

Bruce, it has to be reminded, is selfish, secretive and manipulative. Feelings are often shunted to the side in the face of things in more importance, feelings… except for anger. Anger fuels him to do unspeakable action that gets him what he wants, one way or another.

Laughing is a luxury he does not need, and a glare sends his current perpetrator warning signals which are a benefit in itself. He does not need to build shields in the confines of his armour, the anger helps him breakdown the snivelling crimes of the city.

Gotham is selfish, secretive and manipulative. The common tourist is a fish in a sea of sharks, red with blood. It is her and him, it is them and they had coexisted ever since he was born, _nothing_ is going to change that.

Then, she hears about other heroes in other cities, and so does he. And, and she fears, fears for her city and her name.

Fears for separation.

-

-

-

-

It would have come, sooner rather than later.

Naturally, so many super-powered entity gathering at the same place, adding the occasional crazed psychopath, and the sufficient pinch of brilliance, would have, logically, be just the right recipe for chaos to come bounding in on its heels, loud and grinning. It is irresistible, the smell of death and destruction, it is also alarm bells, for the many people hungry for the right kind of justice.

Heroes gather, and the city burns.

But despite all that, it doesn’t go anywhere _near_ chaos, more along the lines of the-end-of-the-world threat that, admittedly would have been _just_ right to make them band together, silencing the useless arguments and criticism, make them support each other and look forward so that earth wouldn’t trip over itself, killing millions.

They called themselves the ‘Justice League’, and Bruce finds himself being one of their crucial turning points.

After the successful design of the watchtower and the missions taken out-world, in-world, over-world, _through_ worlds by the heroes of the Justice League, Gotham sits in the corner and she reaches out her hand, but finds she could never really touch that familiar smooth mind of Bruce Wayne like before.

-

He thinks he might have seen it coming; he is an expert in this things. But possible outcomes only seemed so real when it’s really happening.

“I cannot read into it.”

J’onn is stunned, though his expression does not change. He gives Bruce his best imitation of a puzzled look and continues, saying the words slowly, “It is as if I am attempting to plunge into a whole new wide ranges of minds,” he shakes his head, “Not just that, I can feel something, a foreign entity, residing in the corners of each one.”

He narrows his eyes, searching for any signs of oddity from the dark cowl and the rigid shoulders, “I am not sure if you are entirely human, Batman.”

And that makes him ponder too, makes the others throw him strange looks, makes Superman tilts his head in a moment of rare surprise. Bruce shrugs it off, glares at all of them in turn and tells J’onn to just fix him a comm.

-

“You didn’t tell me,”

And this is yet another oddity.

“Tell you what.”

This thing going on with Clark Kent is partially annoying while being just plain infuriating at times.

“That you’re not human.”

He wonders why he even puts up with it. Bruce gives him the narrowed glare, though he sighs when he replies back, “And why should it matter?”

“Why should it- _of course it does!”_ he sputters, frowning at Bruce, taking off the Superman guise for a moment. Clark Kent takes on a disappointed look as he tries again, “ _I_ should know for one, we _work_ together,” and another thing, though he doesn’t say it at Batman’s face, is how everyone just _goes_ with it. As if they knew, or had suspected in some way.

Clark is the only one asking questions when the rest of the league just nods away and rolls with it like it’s no big deal. It leaves him feeling unsatisfied and frustrated, like they had seen something from Bruce _he_ didn’t.

Bruce starts to rest his fingers on his forehead as he sighs again, “Look Clark, it really _shouldn’t,_ though I’m hardly surprised you’re put up over something as trivial as this. You’ve never really felt it did you?”

“Felt wha-“

“I’d suspected you were born with an original set of a solid mental shield, you would not have been affected. Ask J’onn, he can confirm it for you,”

They are silent after that, Clark staring in confusion while Bruce stares right back, his cowl betraying nothing of his current emotions. A silent question sneaks out between them and it is audible enough for Bruce to understand what Clark refuses to say out loud,

‘ _What are you?’_

So Bruce tells him.

-

There was this line between them, blurry at times, too obvious at others. They don’t talk about their personal lives, not about what they hate or like, not even about the weather, (Bruce feels uneasy when Superman even _glances_ upwards,). They cooperate, support and pull the other back when things get drastic, but they don’t really _talk._ (The only close thing they get to a conversation is in meetings, the first time they met, and often in arguments. Its tiring, you’d think they’d have Alfred sit them down with a nice cup of tea or two,)

When Clark finds out about Gotham and Bruce he feels a weight leaving his shoulders, thinks about Metropolis, about Lois Lane and The Planet, he gives a little consideration to rules and regulations in which they stand on and he says to himself, ‘ _Why not?’_

He breaks the line between them like he breaks through anything in his way: with ruthless efficiency.

“Free this Friday night?”

He gets this look, it is unreadable but if he would attempt to discern and describe it, it’d be something like watching an owner of a dog seeing said once obedient and trusted dog doing back flips and leaving shits on the carpet.

“What?”

He says it slowly, as if eating something horribly sour,

‘ _Now, now, at least he hasn’t thrown the Batarang on you yet,’_

He allows himself a tiny swallow, just a tiny one, “This Friday. I was just curious.”

Ah, now the owner of the dog finds out that not only has it shat on the carpet but it has also shattered his mother’s urn and urinated all over his bed,

“This Friday.” The words aren’t just sour, they go out tasting like something rotten and probably long dead,

“Yeah.” It’s a first that one, no one has ever heard Superman croak out in social fear.

Its torture, that’s what it was, when Bruce only stares him down in silence, he could’ve at least give some kind of response, a nod, a grunt, _anything_ , but instead he has a stare down and he just _knows_ that if he looks away first, any chances like this won’t ever happen so he holds him down. Imagines their eyes meeting with a loud resounding, _clang_ and doesn’t blink. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d done this anyway.

The night is humid.

For some reason, tonight he sees no clouds.

Bruce sighs and looks down on the winding roads and alleys of his city,

“I’m always busy Clark.”

With that he leaves without another word, melting into the darkness. Superman floats away, speeding up a little when he takes a glance and sees heavy clouds above him, ‘ _Well,’_ he spies on Metropolis, relieved when he sees the peaceful silver spires of the city, ‘ _It’s a start.’_

In his apartment he calls Lois to say sorry on their dinner date for tomorrow, maybe next time, he says. On the other line she shakes her head and tells him to sleep because he sounds tired and that they should really, _really,_ just stop this. His phone beeps and he puts it down, slowly.

-

-

-

-

“Bruce,”

“….”

“I needed some advice; you always seem like the smartest guy in the room,”

“…I’m flattered, I think.”

“It’s about Loi-“

“Penguin at ten o’clock, sort it out yourself Kent,”

-and he gets away again. Clark tilts his head up and beams when he sees the full moon, bright with its intensity and with no sign of any clouds covering its beauty.

-

There was another time, where he visits Gotham and he sees the rain receding, the lights from the city skyline brightening as if feeling a surge of electricity. He spots Batman scowling at him from on top of another gargoyle also giving him an unpleasant look. As he nears he picks up the low murmur,

“ _You’re grinning like an idiot,”_

_-_

_-_

_-_

_-_

_-_

Best buddies now, were they? The problem was, it didn’t really seem that untrue. They use _nicknames_ for heaven’s sakes. He knows the clichés, he’s the light, and Bruce is the darkness. Ultimately, in the end, all that really matters was that the other doesn’t find themselves tripping on deaths many well-laid traps. Near death experiences are nothing compared to seeing your friend fall down the deep dark hole.

Thoughts of, ‘ _It should’ve been me-‘_ shouldn’t happen since they got each other’s back, (and sometimes other people also had their backs, Wonder Woman for starters,). And they keep at it. If one is looking right, the other should be looking the other way, you cover up for them even if you don’t need to, you take precautions before the other gets sent out to the field.

(The thing was, they didn’t know when this had actually _mattered.)_

-

Gotham is losing her grip. Days and nights passes by her head and months go with her not seeing a hair out of Bruce Wayne. She curses the watchtower, wishes that she could have changed things, because things as they are now only leaves her with the people she has no solid control with.

She starts to plan ahead.

-

-

He blinks, “Dick?”

“Bruce!” it’s the too wide smile, Bruce can see the uncertainty wavering at the tip of it, “I know I haven’t been around lately…Bludhaven is a busy place you know! and what with Jason back and Steph lurking around…..” he trails off, eyes darting from the floor to the ceiling realising how _beautiful_ the patterns were now that he gets to see it up close hah-

“What do you want.” He gulps at Bruce’s suspicious glare.

Well, better let it out before he finds out later, at least with that Bruce wouldn’t be able to ambush him, “Okay. Okay the thing is…” he squeezes his eyes shut, hands lifted up, frozen in a placating manner,

“Spit it out.”

Thunder rumbles ominously from outside. They make the tall windows rattle in the manor. Bruce sitting down in front of Dick’s wavering figure puts his hands down on the table and waves for him to continue.

Nightwing takes a deep breath, and he lets it out in a heated rush,

“ _IkindasortatoldClarkthatyou’replanningongoingoutthisSundayitwasanaccidententirelyNOTonpurposeandIthinkhe’sgonnauhsumthinidunno-_ Bye!”

He makes a rather impressive triple flip, crashes through one of the windows with every ounce of Superhero finesse (if you’re running away you’d better do it with _style,)_ and quick surviving skills that he could muster, and flees the manor in the rate of a wild, out of control, spinning yo-yo.

Bruce has never seen him pull out all his acrobatic dexterity in that one single minute in all his life. He stands up slowly, passing by Alfred who, when hearing the sudden loud crash, floats swiftly to the damaged window, broom and plastic bag already in hand.

Walks steadily to the master bedroom, sits slowly on the bed. Speaks to the entirety of his room,

“Ah, fuck.”

-

He’s a little miffed, Bruce didn’t even turn around when he chooses to actually walk to him this time. The silence though, he knows why no words are said as he trudges carefully through the gravelled path of the graveyard. Bruce stares down at the etched names of his parents, umbrella in hand. Clark sees no flowers and when he looks up the sky is clear, somewhat, the clouds only just beginning to gather around.

He speaks up, his voice steady, if only for the sake of propriety, “I thought you were going out with Damian and Titus?”

“Tim told you that?”

There’s a moment of pause, broken only with the sound of dry leaves crunching down his feet as he stepped back. Autumn was too close to winter, here in Gotham. “Didn’t Dick…?”

He gets the raised eyebrow and a ‘ _Who do you think I am?’_ look before he laughs quietly to himself, “Figured it out huh,”

Bruce nods to himself, pulling his coat closer, “Dick covers for them, most of the time, and _Tim,_ (somewhere, where all the fledglings of justice gather, a red robin shudders with unknown dread,) thinks he’s smart enough to solve things that aren’t his to solve.”

There’s another pause, a very loud one. One thick with the contemplations of the reason of Tim’s sudden confidence and whether Kon was playing a part on that as well….he just hopes it wasn’t a particularly big one.

“Alfred went out with Damian, he thinks he’s old enough to go alone but he knows we’re not worried about _him,”_ last time he went out alone, a man ends up in the hospital because he kicked a kitten. Bruce allows the cat to stay for a few days but from then on whenever Damian goes out; it’s either with him in night patrols or Alfred during the day. (School is another thing he rather not delve into,)

Bruce turns, starts to walk away from the headstone and wanders further in, not bothering to look back to see if Clark was following. His umbrella taps idly by his side, its dark red, almost crimson.

Clark stares at the back of his head, studying Bruce’s face, the way his expression slips on like a stage mask, impassive maybe, or just avoiding. “Wasn’t really sure you’d turn up actually,”

Bruce was no fool, Tim may have told Superman about his day out but they both know too well that Clark could’ve met Bruce anytime he wants. The effort to just make Bruce say ‘yes’ every time he asks him out, the way he catches Clark straying gaze, the way the man has the nerve to not look away even when he frowns at him in reply. As indirect as the invitation might be, it’s as good enough a reason to assume that Bruce had finally agreed. It must be.

Bruce shrugs, “Wasn’t sure myself,” and he finally stops, he taps the umbrella on the soft grass. Clark comes up to him and looks around, this was near the forests behind the graves, in front of them, upturned wet clay and a mess of roots crowded at the open seat of one Jason P-

‘ _This was where….’_

Beside him, he feels the umbrella tapping again, the sound is muffled by the wet grass and soil beneath it. Bruce walks around the evident gaping hole left behind the home of the corpse that used to be there, he places the umbrella gently beside the headstone, satisfied that it wouldn’t get dirtied by the mud before stepping back.

Clark frowns. Why...

The silent question is answered quietly, like he was in on some big secret, “I don’t know if it’s just sentimentality or vaguely masochistic but he likes to hang around here sometime. Wears that hoodie and thinks that the rain understands enough to let him off with a slight damp,”

“Never like that is it?”

“No.”

He stays quiet. A wet drop lands on top of the dry headstone, soon others follow, dotting the ground around them. “Bruce,” but he shakes his head slowly, faces Clark with a look he supposes comes along the lines of uncertainty, though he didn’t know that would have existed for him.

“When Jason died,” and he stops, looks away. “When he died, Gotham had to pay the price.”

Clark tries to say something, opening his mouth before snapping it shut when Bruce shakes his head fiercely, “It was a complete disaster, incidents, accidents, the suicide rate went _off the charts_ ,” he remembers waking up from nightmare after nightmare, the cries of the dead echoing in the recesses of his skull. “It took months for things to cool down, a few years for the flowers to stop wilting,”

He finally turns around, and Clark steps back, the face he sees is desperate and pleading, nothing like the man he knew, (or thought he knew,), and Bruce continues, his voice steady, eyes searching his, “You understand right? If I let you do this, and I lose you, my city could _die_ , and it’s my,” it’s almost a stutter, Bruce Wayne _never_ stutters, “my _duty…”_

“To _who?”_

He’s angry. The anger creeping up behind him, hissing and lashing with the cries of, ‘ _Why?’_ and, ‘ _What about me?’_ , selfish in an unspeakable way he could never admit. And he hates it; he hates the way Bruce just bows down to something he can’t even _feel._

“Her.” he says simply.

Bruce doesn’t feel it but, a thread tightens pulls taut, one of the many threads that binds him to his city.

He shakes his head, looking away from Bruce, muttering, “ _Coward,”_ petty, he knows, but how low can you feel when one-sided love could do so much more than make you feel like shit, strangling you with doubt and insecurity while struggling to fake normality in the process?

He can’t stay here.

The rain pours, loud and heavy. The only thing he hears though is the quiet murmur of apology and the proximity of Bruce’s heartbeat when it nears his. He stares at the ground, mud and dirt staining his shoes.

He closes his eyes, in pain, maybe, but it’s more accurate to say that he wanted to relish it, the way Bruce’s lips brushes against his cheeks, a sad rejection more than anything else.

The thread stretches and stretches.

Bruce walks away, the rain falls. He feels something dark grabbing on the ends of his

coat, it touches him like hesitation but he knows it’s not quite that.

The ends of the thread begins to thin, a rip appears at the middle.

He realises it is doubt.

Gotham shakes her head sadly as the first thread snaps with something ominous behind its meaning, a warning of what will come after.

-

Connection and communication is things they don’t even have to think about since it comes naturally. Bruce dreams of Gotham, breathes her air, and has control over her condition. She influences him by letting him have that small grain of power ready made in his head.

It is winter and he wakes up to a slow, dying sunset. And it is strange because he hasn’t had a dreamless sleep like that in a long, long time.

-

The rain this year is not as common as before, Bruce does note the sudden change but he doesn’t question it, reasons to himself that it might be because they have started to mend things between them after the fall out in the graveyard. They act like friends, Clark civil enough to not raise the subject again and Bruce pretends he doesn’t feel bothered when Superman leaves the room a little bit early every time he goes in.

Gotham is sitting on frayed ropes and cobwebs. She cannot see Bruce anymore, not from way over the watchtower, not when he’s in Metropolis or in another planet. She can’t depend on him anymore.

So she depends on someone else.

-

Some people might think it’s silly. She does not feel any anger, happiness and sadness, but, at the same time she feels _everything._ You can’t do that, and yet it is. It does not matter. They would have laughed either way at the _idea_ of her.

And now, in light of all the circumstances, she feels impatience.

So she doesn’t really think thinks through, because usually she gives it to them slow, and steady. Like a slow drip of water from dew leaf and even those were sometimes too overwhelming. Her power is, of course, understandably overwhelming but _some_ people would sneer, laugh and wiggle their fingers when they hear anyone named _‘the chosen one’_. Seems cliché, too _comical._

It is nothing funny, she overestimates the limits of her people and she opens her power. Like a tap.

Jason _screams._

_-_

They stare at him in shock, Superman already kneeling down beside him, voice thick with worry.

“ _Bruce? Bruce what’s wrong- you-“_

The league gathers around, hushed. They were having a debriefing, normal as things goes, when things starts going the other way and Batman collapses for no reason. He’s clutching his head, the other hand feeling around his torso as if searching for something that isn’t _there._

J’onn stares, and tries to console him. Bruce’s mind however, now a panicked scramble of questions and anxiety, is too crowded for him to squeeze in. He will not be greeted warmly anyway, ‘ _I knew you were human,’_ he looks at everyone’s passive face and shakes his head, ‘ _we all knew,’_ and he walks away, silently.

There should be a pool of blood gathering around his knees by now, the quiet thump of dead flesh, _something._ Bruce wonders if this is how it feels like when you became blind, or deaf. His arms and legs are torn apart but they’re still here and they’re trembling, shaking in a tremor he never allows other people to see. His breathing quickens and someone is shouting at him now, distant and fuzzy.

Superman tries again, shaking his shoulders now, calling his name. He does not care if everyone sees, the skin exposed by the cowl is deathly pale and he is mumbling, and muttering things he can’t understand-

“ _Bruce!”_

He finally stops, hands fidgeting around, eyes confused. He says, slowly, in sudden realisation,

“She’s gone.”

Clark looks at him, puzzled. But he has no time, if she’s not here then she could be-

Bruce stands up abruptly, storming out, his feet pounding. Not a word is said, the silence is followed by a few slams and a far off humming as the teleporter turns on.

They stared at the doorway in silence, bewildered. Then Hal clears his throat, “So uh,” he smiles uncertainly, “can I go back too?”

They called it off, the league shuffles away, happy to not sit through another meeting while the fewer half’s grumbled about not getting everything in order. Clark waves goodbye to Diana before he heads for Gotham.

-

 The rain is irregular, nonsensical. The clouds in a wide, dizzying scramble, holes of light shining down at random parts of the city while the others are deluged with heavy rainfall. Clark finds them in a dark narrow alley.

Here, the cloud is thick, and wet drops are just beginning to form.

He doesn’t go near, floats in the building overhead, head down and hopes they won’t notice. He hears Bruce gentle hush, as he holds on to Jason, whimpering, head buried in his chest. Is successfully tempted to eavesdrop on them as he hears a long drawn out wail, quiet but in pain, repeating the words like a hopeless beggar, “ _-take it away, please, just take it away-“_ and Bruce tries to interrupt but he shakes his head, “- _too much, it’s too much, I can’t-“_

The rain drops down, sudden and shocking. The din could damage your eardrums, and over it he hears bricks falling from the violent hail, ( he doesn’t notice the change since the force of the rainfall was just as hard as the torrents of ice-), sees a roof giving over, groaning loudly, the sound swallowed by the ice and wind, just as the metal tiles crashes on Bruce’s back.

He wants to help, to shield them but he feels the wind tugging his cape, holding him in place. The air around him is frigid and it says, ‘ _STAY’._ And Bruce isn’t moving. He holds Jason tightly, the other a sobbing mess. His back is stiff and tightly coiled, as if he was ready to jump out any time.

“ _Come back,”_

Clark can barely hear him say it,

“ _COME BACK,”_

And it is a fierce roar that shakes the city, but still, not enough-

“ _I SAID **COME BACK”**_

If a giant black hole would have opened up in Gotham he wouldn’t have been surprised. There was this one single moment where everything just….stops. The rain? The air? Time itself? He couldn’t tell. But just as it started it resumes again, now, sucking everything in this small pocket of an anti-entity that he guesses is where Bruce throws all his bad memories. Down the drains, through the sewers, seeping in the soil like the blood that pools over his parents dead bodies. Those are there too. Flashes of memories, like Bruce couldn’t keep it all in one drainpipe without some water leaking out,

-

A man trips on air when he swears he saw a black pit overhead. The feeling of falling tugs his stomach and he realises the black pit looks more like a well,

-

The Commissioner frowns, he feels that he misses Gotham, though he is sitting right at the centre of it,

-

A random sense of elation pulls a girl coming back for school to walk back and start the martial arts club she’d always wanted to make. She doesn’t know why. It’s like a sudden clear purpose in life,

-

Alfred pauses in his dusting. He stares at the dust clouds floating in the air and feels nostalgic, remembering the times before. When a little robin had pranced around the mansion like it was its own little nest,

-

Dick sighs, recalls the feeling of the floor disappearing from below when he hears the news about Jason,

-

And a toddler tugs the sleeve of her mother’s coat. When she gets her mother’s attention she smiles widely and says, confidently, (like _nothing_ was going to stop her),

“Mama, I want to see _the world,_ ”

-

-

-

In the midst of the calming storm, he is crying to her, and she also looks at him sadly,

‘ _I told you before haven’t I?’_

_\--_

_‘I swore an oath.’_

_\--_

_‘I won’t leave,’_

_\--_

She finally understands. It was not him drifting apart, but her. She didn’t trust him enough; she thought he was going to leave his own city. She cries for him, for his son, for the fate of others in her city and she says,

“I know.”

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

Jason leaves the city, for a while. He expects Bruce to be in a foul mood the next time they meet but his face is blank, his mouth in a regular thin line. Clark sighs quietly in relief despite himself, the city has come back and so has Bruce. He shouldn’t have worried.

“I’m free.”

He blinks, surprised. Looks at Bruce,

“What.”

Bruce faces him, (and he swears he sees a grin tugging-), “This Friday.” Says it to him casually, swings to another building, his dark cape flying.

Clark laughs, his wide smile crinkling at the corners.

Tonight, the moon is full.

-THE WORLD-

-END-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue after this ^^


	4. The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it sits innocently behind the manor. As innocent as you can get without being twenty feet tall and as wide as a ping pong table. A breeze comes down to the manor, brushing the dirt and sand from the evergreen leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs to teach Cass to use her phone ;-;

All right, he admits, sometimes he gets ridiculously high, just for the sake of it. ‘Sometimes’ is his horrifying teenage phase when he thought dating Babs was a good idea, (right before he starts _really_ growing up,) there were also this need for rebellion and the need for the Batmobile. Oh yeah and cocaine. Apparently.

Anyway.

That was Sometimes, and this is Now. So.

“The fuck…..”

Dick wonders if he’d snuck some under his bed last night or he’s just landed on the wrong fucking city. He’d walked in, (jumped, swooped, pirouetted, same difference,) heading for the manor but the state of the city is similar to the time he remembers seeing a talking Zebra complaining about the ac when Sometimes happened.

But this is _Now._

And now the birds are _chirping._

He walks in the driveway, dazed, blitz out maybe but the world is crazy so no one could blame him. Its picture perfect, like the kind you see in elementary drawings used with disgustingly colourful crayons. There’s the sun, smiling brightly hung up in the sky- and the _sky._ It’s devastatingly blue, like _baby_ blue, not a hint of grey anywhere. Even the clouds are innocently fluffy and white. _Fuck- was that a rainbow?_

He shakes his head. Things are not how they should be, here in Gotham.

 His phone rings suddenly, manic non-stop buzzing from Steph freaking out, Tim’s careful contemplations, and Damian’s demands to know why it hasn’t rained yet. One catches his eye, and it’s from Babs,

‘ _Had a tangle with_ _Ivy and she was CRAZY_

_Well_

_You know_

_craziER_

_cnt shut up about the roses getting hot and ready-‘_

What.

Another text from Jason is short but he raises his eyebrows, snaps his fingers together and goes, _Oh…._ And it says: ‘ _Heard bossman finally got himself some Kent last night-‘_

Inside, Alfred worries about global warming after he stares at his garden that has already started blooming when winter hasn’t even ended yet. A minute passes. Suddenly, underneath the floors of the manor, there is a deep, low, rumbling.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

They were right in the middle of it, at the peak, when Bruce pauses and tries to catch his breath for a moment.

“Wait.”

Clark is over him, covering him, under his skin, _everywhere._ “Why?” he whispers, (it’s a habit, he thinks, being in the master bedroom always made him feel a tad intimidated) maybe because its bigger than his apartment,) maybe because it was _Bruce’s_ ,) and he kisses softly down Bruce’s neck, a trail ending at his collarbone, “What’s wrong?”

He shivers, feeling hands sliding up his back. Warm skin, scars criss-crossed over them, he dreams about them often, dreams about kissing each one. The hand reaches his hair at the back, fingers burying themselves in, nails scratching his scalp slightly. Clark hums, voice low, he nips the tip of his ear and licks the shell, “Bruce?”

“I…”

He bites him again just for spite, so Bruce pulls his hair a little, scowling.

Clark laughs quietly, “Yeah?”

“I want you to bring it down.”

He stares at Bruce, puzzled, “What…” then, “ _oh,”_ he bites his bottom lip.

This is it. This is the one thing they’ve been sidestepping all this time, (Clark had waited, and along the way, when he’d felt the hot burning skin of Bruce’s lips, the way his hands closes around the side of his head as it tilts, he waits again, wonders if Bruce had forgotten,). It is undeniably true because _I love you’s_ were difficult to say for a reason and their reason was this: Jason’s grave and Gotham’s future.

Its acceptance, in a way. It was risky what they’re doing, (but again, what isn’t?), and he’s ready to face the consequences. Bruce just wants him to be ready too, he wants him to _feel._

So he lets out a shaky breath, they’re already sweating but he feels cold ones sliding at his back, “Alright.” and he drops down his mental shields, all of them, lowering his head down, resting his forehead at Bruce’s chest.

His cheeks get wet.

“Clark….” Bruce brushes them away, kissing his eyes closed, “You can keep them up,”

And its- its _unbearable,_ he’d expected an overwhelming mass of minds crowding in and cramming in his head but his back trembles because the amount of emotions that stabs him is unending, its anger, sadness, _love_ , diluted and pure, and it is vast, love as big as the ocean, the universe. He gasps, hands shaking, drowning and gulping for air,

“ _No,”_ he rasps, and Clark kisses him.

They kiss and kiss until Bruce has to pull out for air and then they’ll kiss again. The bed sheets are damp and warm, morning just beginning to peek through the darkness, but the room stays dim. Someone moans in it, edging to a silent scream, a climax tearing all their senses open.

Underneath, the rumbling increases…..and halts.

-

-

-

“ _WHAT THE FUCK!”_

“I believe Master Bruce is currently sleeping upstairs right now, so please be more qui-“

“You mean with _Clark?_ Yeah well no _shit_ , a fucking _tree_ fucking popped out of _nowhere-“_

_“_ Global warming is a rather pressing issue that needs attending to doesn’t it-“

“This isn’t _global warming_ Alfred, Its. A. Cedar. Tree,”

And it sits innocently behind the manor. As innocent as you can get without being twenty feet tall and as wide as a ping pong table. A breeze comes down to the manor, brushing the dirt and sand from the evergreen leaves.

-

-

-

-

-

The afternoon is mellow and peaceful. Bruce lies back on the sofa beside the shelves of books of his father’s library. He has his hand busy with an analytical argument about the probable result if the Flash were to run so fast the world starts rotating the other way, (possible, but then again everything is nearly possible when it comes down to Barry,). His right hand are stained with red ink, the other is idly going through the dark tresses of Superman’s hair. Papers are spread out on Clarks back, and when he shifts, Bruce hits him lightly on the forehead,

“Stop it.” Clark grumbles, before laying his head back down on Bruce, content to hear his heartbeat so close to his ear.

It’s raining again.

When he hears Clark mumbling incoherently in his sleep he lets himself give out a soft smile, kisses the hair on top.

The rain lightens, turns into a light drizzle.

-THE HEART-

-FIN-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this~

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave kudos and comments if you have any thoughts on this~ (more HCs would be reaaallly niceeee :3)  
> probs gonna update daily, maybe,


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